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Kyrie started worrying about Tom almost as soon as he left the parking lot. It wasn't that she was angry at him—or not exactly. A part of her understood that he couldn't bear to be controlled by someone else, much less someone who legally and morally should have no power over him.

Another part of her wanted to tell him to grow up already and that adults knew they couldn't have life all their own way, that they couldn't forever hold at bay the unpleasant parts of reality and those they would rather not deal with. But that part of her, she told herself, was firmly under control. Yes, she was sure that Tom was overreacting. But at the same time he was just as sure that she was underreacting, enduring the interference of the dire wolf in her affairs with excessive placidity and total lack of protest.

Which, she thought, was not really true. She could very easily—and happily, for that matter—allow herself to scream and rant. For all the good it would do.

But she would not allow herself to scream and rant at Tom. Because that would do no good. She was sure he'd gone off to cool off and that he too was trying to hold his temper in check. And she couldn't fault him. She preferred he did that than he shifted and took it out on all those nearby.

Keith was looking intently at her. "Is Anthony coming in?"

"In a few minutes," Kyrie said, keeping her voice calm. In her mind, she was imagining Tom walking blindly into the storm. She wished he had taken his jacket.

"I can't stay, Kyrie. I have to get home," Keith said. "I have no idea what happened to Summer. She must think I'm crazy. I bring her here for a coffee, and the next thing you know, I'm cooking."

"Yeah," Kyrie said. "Anthony is on his way. " He'd sounded frankly relieved to be called in. Kyrie wondered what exactly his wife had been doing to make him so happy to hear from her. But Anthony solved it himself as he came in. "It's crazy just sitting in the house, watching reruns of Friends," he said. "I mean, it's a studio, and it's just snowing outside. And then Cecily is worried about . . . you know . . . the storm and whether the roof is going to cave in. Like . . . we're on the third floor down from the top of the building. If the roof caves in on us, we're in a world of trouble." He looked sheepish for a moment, as he divested himself of his jacket and put on his apron and the hat he wore while he was cooking—which was, granted, not as stylish as Tom's bandana, but served the same purpose of keeping hair out of the food. "She's not . . . I mean, I don't want you to think she's crazy or something. It's just she's not used to going through these blizzards. I guess for people who didn't grow up in Colorado it must look much worse than it is."

"Yeah, it does," Kyrie said. And still, in her mind, she saw Tom walking through the storm. How could he survive it? Could he survive it? She heard Dire saying that most of the young shifters died through their own stupidity and she gritted her teeth and pretended that everything was fine, and got orders, and put them on the carousel of spikes on the counter, for Anthony.

More people came in. Probably people who weren't all that familiar with Colorado, Kyrie thought, and who found it easier to weather the storm in here than alone in whatever tiny apartments they lived in. She kept a smile on her face, and worked as efficiently as she knew how, while Anthony turned out the meals in record time.

She didn't know how long it had been, when she heard the back door open. She set down the tray and the carafe of coffee on the counter, and ran down the hallway. "Tom," she started, with some idea of finishing the sentence with "Tom, I was so worried."

But instead of Tom, it was Conan, coming in. He was a vague shade between blue and lavender. His teeth beat a mad rhythm. His hair was so covered in snow that he might as well have been wearing a powdered wig.

"Where is Tom?" Kyrie asked.

Conan looked up at her, in mute misery. That look made thoughts run through her mind, thoughts she didn't like at all. There had been a fight and the Great Sky Dragon had killed Tom. After all, she remembered, the creature held it his right to discipline those he deemed to belong to him. Or else . . . or else, Tom had been run over. Or simply collapsed and frozen by the side of the road. "What. Happened. To. Tom?" she asked, her voice slow and controlled, even as she told herself that she would not shift. She would never shift. Not in the diner. Shifting wouldn't help anything. Conan already looked halfway between frozen and terrified.

He shook his head. "He is fine," he said, though the words weren't really easy to understand through his chattering teeth. "He's . . . he was fine when I left him."

And then, nerveless, as though his legs had turned to rubber under him and his body wasn't all that much more solid, Conan sank to his behind just inside the door of the diner. "He made me leave," he said. "He told me to leave. He made me leave. What if something happens to him?"

"Tom made you leave?"

A headshake. "No. Himself. He told me to leave. Tom said . . . he said he'd kill himself if I stayed with him, and the Grea—Himself said he meant it."

"Nothing will happen to Tom," Kyrie said. And bit her lip thinking that unfortunately she was growing as weary of the interference of elder shifters as Tom himself was. "It's all right. Come on." She helped him get up—or rather more or less pulled him up, by his arms, by main strength. "Come on. I'll get you coffee or something. You're frozen."

"He's out there, like that," Conan said. "In a T-shirt. What if something happens to him?"

"Tom is a big boy," Kyrie said. "He'll take care of himself. He used to live on the streets. It's not like he's a child whom we must look after."

She was telling herself that more than she was telling it to Conan. And she was so convincing that she almost believed it. At least for the next two hours, she managed to keep herself from freaking out thinking of Tom out there alone and what might happen to him.

It wasn't like the city was safe. There were the Ancient Ones, and whatever was throwing people to the sharks, and the Rodent Liberation Front and the triad. In fact, it was an interesting time to be a shifter in Goldport.

She was very close to losing all self-control, shifting, and loping about in the storm, trying to smell Tom out, when the phone rang.

"Hello," she said. "The George."

"Kyrie. It's Rafiel. Is Tom okay?"

And then, before she could control it, before she could remember that Tom was an adult and should be treated as such, all her anxiety came pouring out of her, "I hope so. But, Rafiel, he walked west on Fairfax two and a half hours ago and he hasn't come back."

"Uh. Does he have his phone with him?"

"Yes. Well . . . maybe. He should have it. But he isn't answering." An hour ago, in a moment of weakness, she'd tried to call three or four times. And another half a dozen times since.

"I see. You two fight?"

"No. Not really. He is just . . . he's mad at the . . . you know . . ."

"Yeah. I imagine." There was a pause, as if Rafiel were trying to think through things. "West on Fairfax?"

"Yeah."

"I see. I tell you what, I'll drive down the road a while and see if I can find him. What was he wearing?"

"What he was wearing when you last saw him. Jeans and a black T-shirt." She felt she needed to defend him against stupidity, even though Rafiel hadn't even paused in a significant manner. "He said he needed to cool off."

"Oh, yes. And I'm sure he has," Rafiel said. "Don't worry, okay? I'll see if I can find him."

 

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Framed